


A Lie Agreed Upon

by kangeiko



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Betty's mom was the one who taught Betty how to do her hair.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lie Agreed Upon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idlerat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlerat/gifts).



> Many thanks to k, my amazing beta.

 

 _Ossining,_   
_January 4 th 1960_   
__

_7.30am_   
__

*

 

It had snowed in the night. The air was warm enough to let the snow settle heavily across the neatly-trimmed lawns and freshly-shovelled drive-ways. The last few nights it had been too cold for that, and the snow had frozen on its way down, turning to ice and frost and lying in treacherous wait across the poorly-lit roads. There were reports of accidents on the roads and the trains were delayed or not running at all. The city had locked down, and all hotel rooms were taken.

 

Betty woke alone. Don had not come home the night before, marooned on an urban island until the black ice could be beaten back. Maybe he’d be able to come home tonight, she thought. The bed was cold with just her in it, and she thought about fetching an extra comforter and staying under the covers all day long. But the children would be up soon and need their breakfast, and Carla wouldn’t be in until noon. This was only the second winter that Bobby remembered, his excitement for the snow uncontrollable. He _would_ jump in every snowdrift, and kick every snowman, and grab his sister and make her do snow angels with him until they were too cold to move and had to be carried indoors for an extra blanket and a cup of hot cocoa.

 

It must be nice, Betty thought fuzzily, to kick all your limbs out and make a snow angel. She blinked away sleep and tried to remember the last time she had done it.

 

“Mommy, mommy, wake up!” Sally bounded up the stairs, still in her nightgown and in _bare feet_ , for crying out loud. She’d catch her death of cold. (And isn’t it funny, Betty thought, that she notices these things automatically now? Once upon a time she had agonised over whether she’d be a good mother and here she is, a few years later, noticing bare feet even when half asleep.)

 

Bobby followed close on his sister’s heels, and he’d somehow wriggled out of his pyjama top, so he came bursting into the master bedroom clad only in his flannel pyjama bottoms and probably half-frozen already. They both launched themselves on the bed, burrowing beneath the covers with frightening efficiency, belying their demand that she wake up. Or maybe their cold fingers and toes were meant to be the wake-up call.

 

“I’m up,” Betty told them, and flipped the edge of the duvet so it covered their heads. She stood, shivering as the cold quickly leeched away the warmth of sleep. “You guys need to get warm. Stay in there for a little bit.”

 

“Mommy –“

 

“I’m up,” Betty said again, more to herself than to Sally. She wrapped her robe around herself and wished she had thought to purchase flannel rather than silk. Her feet were cold in her slippers as she padded downstairs, narrowly avoiding tripping on a red plastic truck Bobby had left on the stairs. “Bobby!” She yelled, picking up the truck and setting it on the side table. “How many times – put your toys away before bed!”

 

“Sorry, Mommy!” Came drifting downstairs, somewhat muffled by the duvet, which was now probably being sculpted into a fort.

 

She put the coffee on, got the cereal and milk out, and lit herself a cigarette. It was barely dawn, the kitchen still murky in the pale light that filtered through the windows. She’d never liked winter, Betty thought, especially in New York. She remembered how much more unpleasant Manhattan was in this weather, and briefly felt for Don, stuck in the city with the snow piling up outside. She hoped he was somewhere warm.

 

Right. Breakfast was on the table, Francine said she’d stop by in the morning, and Carla would be along about noon. She checked the fridge and frowned at the contents. She’d have to check whether Don would be back for dinner; if so, she’d have to go to the supermarket to buy a few things. The only thing still present in abundance was the children’s food, but she could hardly feed Don fish fingers for his dinner.

 

“Bobby, Sally, are you ready yet?” She called upstairs. If she could get them up and breakfasted reasonably quickly, she might be able to do the shopping in the morning, before Francine came by. Then she wouldn’t be hurrying to get everything ready in the evening. “Both of you, get up and get washed!” Maybe they should hire Carla full-time, she thought. That would make things a lot simpler.

 

“C’mon, both of you!”

 

She went upstairs.

 

 

 

 

 _8.30am_   
__

*

 

She worked the brush through her hair methodically, smoothing out the tangles. The seat in front of her dresser was cold and hard, and she shifted uncomfortably as she finished her one hundred strokes and pulled out her box of pins. Her fingers worked quickly on each segment of hair, deftly twisting and pinning it so would dry into the correct shape. Don liked to watch Betty do her hair and put on her face in the morning. He said it was amazing what women did to stay so beautiful, and that he couldn’t imagine doing something that time-consuming every day.

 

Betty has never minded it, not really, and she doesn’t view it as a hard-ship, however time-consuming it might be. It’s not like it’s _work_ , after all; she does it because, well, _because_. She can’t imagine a woman who wouldn’t, who would turn up her nose at the cold cream and the blush and the lipstick, who would throw out her hairbrush and hairpins. That poor girl!

 

Betty’s mom was the one who taught Betty how to do her hair, guiding her small hands through the correct motions. Betty remembered being six or seven years old, working out the tangles in her childish hair with an oversized hairbrush while her mother guided her hands carefully. If she closed her eyes she could trace the comforting pattern of the hair-brush, guiding her hair into familiar shapes.

 

How terrible it would have been, Betty thought, if her mother had not known how to do her hair, and had not been able to teach Betty. Betty would have never learned, and would not be able to teach Sally. Worse! With unkempt hair Betty may have never married Don, and there would be no Sally to show her combs and brushes to. There would just be Betty, sitting in her daddy’s study, too old to wed and her hair a mess.

 

Or, Betty thought, and this was a truly terrifying thought, what if her mother _had_ known how to do her hair, but something had prevented her from teaching Betty. What if something terrible happened tomorrow and Betty never got to sit down with Sally in front of a mirror? Oh, they’d played make-believe together, of course, and she’d sat Sally carefully in front of the mirror and tied ribbons in her pretty curls, but it’s not the same thing as practising it yourself.

 

Betty leaned against the kitchen counter and closed her eyes. She imagined her daughter grown; Sally’s blonde curls a mess around her shoulders. She couldn’t imagine her in anything other than little-girl clothes so she made a strange picture, that grown woman with the tangled hair and the little-girl frock with puffed knickers peeking out beneath.

 

All at once it seemed absurd and grotesque, and she shook her head to clear it. She shouldn’t be sitting here wool-gathering anyway, she thought. Francine would be by any minute now.

 

 

 

 

 

 _10am_   
__

*

 

“Some nights, when the pain in my back is really bad,” Francine said quietly, lighting her cigarette, “I wish that I’d just wake up in the morning and find that I’m no longer pregnant.”

 

Betty felt her lips part in surprise. “Francine, you don’t mean that.”

 

Francine exhaled and gestured with her cigarette dismissively. “It’s not that I want to lose the baby, Betty; God, no. But not all of us can carry off pregnancy as well as you.” As Betty opened her mouth to disagree, Francine carried on hurriedly, “and it’s not like I can put it down for a while if it no longer suits. It’s a great big lump I’ve got to cart around while I have to carry on doing everything else.”

 

Betty poured her some more tea. “You’re just tired, Francine. You’ve been working too hard, with Ernie home from school, and the baby on the way, and Carlton sick.”

 

“Well,” Francine said grudgingly after a pause, “having Carlton around all the time _is_ making me a little crazy, so you’re at least half-right. He’s keen on me leaving to house for a little air each day –“ she gestured with her cigarette, her lips twisting into a rueful smile, “– and taking Ernie with me, mind you. I’ve told him repeatedly I’m perfectly fine, but you know how he gets. So now I’m out half the day, dragging Ernie and this lump,” she patted her belly, “around with me, and I still have to get on with all the housework.” She put her cup of tea down. “I’m telling you, it’s all I can do not to tell him to mind his own business.”

 

Betty exhaled sharply, and reached over to tap her cigarette against the ashtray. “Is it that bad?”

 

“Well,” Francine said, leaning back in her chair. “I do like having him around. But in small doses!”

 

Betty tried to imagine only wanting Don around for a little while, instead of all the time. “How is his chest doing?” She asked instead.

 

Francine frowned. “Well, he seems to be getting better,” she said slowly. “But you know what men are like, one little bout of bronchitis and you’d think the world was coming to an end. I told him it would build character, and he snapped at me that he had plenty of character already.”

 

Betty pursed her lips. “Maybe he was just tired,” she offered. “You know how men get when they haven’t had enough sleep.”

 

Francine sighed. “I know. And it has been better, I suppose. But I’m still looking forward to him getting better and getting back to work. Having him at home is just…” she shook her head. “It’s _embarrassing_.”

 

“I don’t know,” Betty said, a little wistfully, “I wouldn’t mind having Don home a little more. Not sick, of course,” she added hastily.

 

“And not when you’re pregnant, either!” Francine laughed.

 

Betty felt an abrupt pang of fear at the thought; pregnancy, at this point! No, it didn’t bear thinking about. “No, I don’t think that – well, I don’t think that it would be a good idea. I don’t know how you do it, I just wouldn’t have the energy.” She shuddered. “The morning sickness with Bobby was just horrible.”

 

Francine waved a hand and leaned forward. “Oh, that’s right, it wasn’t out when you had Bobby – listen, it’s just the best new thing, it solves all your problems!”

 

“What?”

 

“This new drug they’ve come up with, my doctor prescribed it for me. It’s stupidly expensive, of course, but Carlton got fed up of me throwing up all the time so he agreed to pay for it. It’s called something like thalimede, or thalidime, something like that, and it’s amazing –“

 

Betty was trying to stifle a smile at the thought; as if morning sickness had been her main concern when pregnant! How to cope with another baby all on her own with her mother so far away, how nothing would fit and she felt repulsive to herself and others (and that had been a busy period for Don at the office, so there had been a lot of dinner parties to be thrown)… And how, when it had been really bad, she’d half-fantasised about smothering Sally in her crib just to get her to stop crying. (She hadn’t been able to tell her mother about that, or Francine, or anyone. What kind of a mother would even think that?)

 

All those things, keeping her away at night while the baby kicked and her heart clenched for a thousand reasons, and some clever doctor had found the cure for morning sickness.

 

Francine grinned at her expression. “I know! But I’m serious, _no_ morning sickness whatsoever.” She exhaled, and tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. “It’s like some kind of wonder-drug.”

 

Betty nodded. “Well, too bad you can’t take it for all kinds of sickness, then,” she said off-handedly.

 

Francine shrugged and looked at her for a long moment. Betty abruptly remembered calling Francine in tears after Bobby had been born. Don had been away, and she’d sat at the kitchen counter with a screaming baby and yelling toddler penned in upstairs, and called Francine over for a drink. If _you need to get yourself together,_ her mother had told a teenaged Betty many years ago, _it helps to have an impending audience._ Sure enough, the threat of having someone see her like that had done its job, and by the time Francine had arrived twenty minutes later she had the kids quiet and the tea made.

 

“You never know,” Francine said slowly, “those doctors might come up with something for everything.” She held out her cup for a refill.

 

Betty poured them both some more tea. “Yes, well.” Her hand shook a little as she picked up her teacup, and she put it down again abruptly.

 

In the sitting room, Sally was playing with the wireless, skipping it across the stations until she found one that she liked. Betty felt absurdly grateful for the interruption. “Sally Draper, get in here!” She called out.

 

Sally immediately ran into the room.

 

“You know you’re not allowed to listen to music with the door open, it’s disruptive.” She waved her cigarette to gesture towards the open door. “If you’re going to listen to the wireless, you need to close the door first. Now, Sally.”

 

The child pouted and left the room, closing the door behind her. The first strains of the song filtering through from the sitting room were quickly muffled as the door slammed shut.

 

 _… chantilly lace and a pretty face …_

 

Betty sighed. “I shouldn’t let them listen to music, I know, but Don indulges them.”

 

Francine shook her head. “Better they’re quiet, Ernie was running around all day today, Carlton was furious. Anyway – before I forget. I ran into Winnie in the store a couple of days ago, she says the sale on the empty house down the street has finally gone through. You know the one, the little Dutch colonial.”

 

“Do we know who’s taken it?”

 

“Not yet, but we will in a couple of months once the moving date is settled. They’re going to need to be introduced to everyone, of course.”

 

Betty was silent for a long moment.

 

“Hey. Betty, what’s wrong?” Francine asked, concern in her voice.

 

Betty shook her head. One of her curls had come loose, curling the wrong way; she tucked it back irritably. “It’s nothing.”

 

Francine raised an eyebrow. “Really? ‘Cause you looked a million miles away, there.”

 

“I just…” She sighed, and put her teacup down. “I was just thinking it would be nice if they had a little girl around Sally’s age, so she’s not surrounded by boys all the time.” She gestured towards the closed door. “You saw what she’s been like – running around, and listening to music.”

 

“It would be good for her to be around other little girls,” Francine agreed.

 

Betty shook her head. “I think –” she hesitated. “I’m worried she’s going to grow up not knowing how to be a girl.”

 

Francine reached out and covered her hand with her own. “Betty,” she said, firm. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could she not know, when she has you for a mother?”

 

 _How am I meant to teach her?_ Betty wondered, but it was a treacherous thought. Her mother had managed perfectly well with Betty herself. By all rights she should be worried about Bobby instead, with Don away on business so much and Bobby surrounded by women all day long. She smiled a little weakly. “Of course,” she said.

 

Francine tightened her grip on Betty’s fingers. After a moment, Betty squeezed back.

 

 

 

 _12noon_

 

*

 

By the time Betty got back from the store, she could see the familiar figure in red outside her house: Carla, walking up the driveway. “Good morning, Mrs Draper,” Carla said. Her breath was visible in the cold and she struggled to remove her gloves. “Let me help you with that.”

 

“Good morning, Carla.” Betty handed over her bags of shopping and unlocked the front door.

 

Carla caught the top bag and eased it down, preventing the bread from tipping onto the floor as they walked inside, the children already tugging on Carla’s coat excitedly.

 

“Thank you. I got a little carried away at the store,” Betty said. She put the other bag down and just about managed to hide a yawn as Bobby and Sally ran straight to the closet to shed their outdoor clothing.

 

Carla looked at her kindly. “Why don’t you have a short lie-down, Mrs Draper. I can handle the children.”

 

“I’m not tired,” Betty protested automatically, feeling ridiculous.

 

“Just the same.”

 

Betty resisted for a moment longer, then nodded reluctantly. She really _was_ tired; Francine’s visit had completely worn her out and the store had been busy, with everyone stocking up on essentials after the long New Year’s closure. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a second,” she said. “Just for a couple of minutes.”

 

Carla nodded. “Of course. I’ll wake you if the children need anything.”

 

As Betty left Carla sorting out the shopping and escaped to the sitting room, she heard Bobby run thundering back into the kitchen. “Carla!”

 

“Hello, Bobby. Mind you don’t wake your mother, now, she’s tired and needs a nap.”

 

Betty closed the sitting room door and walked a little unsteadily to the couch. She lay down awkwardly, slipping out of her shoes and arranging her skirt. She could hear the rustle of the carrier bags in the kitchen as Carla emptied them and put the shopping away. “Bobby,” she heard her say, “would you like to help me bake some cinnamon cookies?”

 

 

 

 

 _4pm_   
__

*

 

“Mrs Draper?”

 

Someone touched her shoulder gently. Betty blinked and tried to focus. Had she fallen asleep?

 

Carla’s face swam into view. She already had her outdoor coat on. “Mrs Draper, I’m all finished now, so if you don’t need anything else, I’ll get going.”

 

“I – yes,” she straightened up on the sofa and tried to smooth down her skirt. Her eyes felt gritty. “No, that is – thank you, Carla, I think I can manage.”

 

Carla nodded, picking up her pocketbook and pulling on her gloves. With her hair that neat, Betty wondered if she had a date. “Was there anything else?”

 

Carla paused for a moment. She looked like she was trying to decide something in her head. “Mrs Draper, I don’t want to worry you, but I didn’t think it right to ignore this.”

 

For a moment, the words didn’t process. Betty stared up at Carla, blinking sleep away rapidly as her heart clenched. “What is it?”

 

Carla told her.

 

“Oh,” Betty said, her voice brittle. “I see.” She stood up unsteadily, smoothing down her dress and patting her hair back into place. “Well. Thank you, Carla. I’ll handle it from here.”

 

“Yes, Mrs Draper,” Carla said, and turned to go. She put her hand on the door-handle. “Mrs Draper,” she said, hesitating.

 

Betty forced a smile back onto her face. “Yes.”

 

“I don’t think she meant anything by it.”

 

“Yes.” Betty’s hands clenched. “Thank you.”

 

Carla nodded, almost to herself, then let herself out. The door closed behind her, her winter coat a flash of colour against the smooth white palate of the snow outside.

 

Betty stayed standing, blinking away the after-image of red-on-white. Her hands clenched in her lap and she tried to smooth them out nervously, stroking down the length of her nails in a long-forgotten gesture.

 

As a little girl she had been that most terrible of things, a nail-biter, and her mother had tried everything she could think of to get the young Betty to stop. Finally, in despair, she had painted her short, girlish nails in tincture of iodine, and left Betty to walk around with yellow marks on her hands and mouth until the urge had passed. It took three weeks of the hated iodine painting, after every wash, morning and night, and Betty had taken to stroking the tops of her nails to soothe the sting on her peeling cuticles. By the time that tincture had been returned to its place in the bathroom cabinet, Betty’s nervous nail-biting had turned to nail-stroking – just as silly, if a little less publicly embarrassing.

 

So here she was. A grown woman, clenching and unclenching her hands in the middle of her living room, nervously tracing the outlines of her nails and trying to work out what she was going to do next. Should she wait for Don? She wasn’t sure whether he would understand. He’d likely think she was being silly.

 

 _Maybe I_ am _being silly_ , she thought, uncertain, but – no, Carla had worried, too. She lit a cigarette and inhaled, closing her eyes for a long moment. _All right_. She sighed and went upstairs, to where Sally and Bobby would be playing. Well, Sally would be; she rather hoped that Carla had managed to put Bobby down for an afternoon nap.

 

“Sally?” She called. “Where are you?”

 

“I’m in here, Mommy,” Sally said, opening the nursery door. Her careful pigtails had come undone on one side, and she was trailing a length of ribbon from her dress.

 

“Sally,” Betty said, then promptly ran out of words. “Sally, Carla told me what you did. Where is it?”

 

“Where’s what?”

 

“Your _doll_ , don’t play innocent with me. Where’s your Barbie?”

 

Sally’s eyes widened. “She’s sleeping,” she said. “She was tired and needed a nap.”

 

Betty sighed. She could see the tell-tale shape beneath the nursery blanket. “Give her to me.”

 

Sally pulled the doll out from beneath the blanket, then frowned and tucked her behind her back.

 

Betty reached out her hand. “Well? I’m waiting.”

 

Sally looked down at her feet, evidently having worked out that she’d done something wrong but unsure as to what. She hesitated for another moment, then handed over the Barbie.

 

Betty stared down at the doll, astonished.  “Well. I don’t even know what to say.” She turned the doll over in her hands, her fingers tracing the ragged hem of the doll’s navy and white stripe sundress – a hem that was now considerably higher than when purchased a month previously. It now ended at the doll’s mid-thigh, the yellow ribbon at the waist still neatly tied into a bow. “Sally, what did you do to this poor doll?” A jagged edge marked the new hem of the doll’s outfit; clearly, someone had taken a pair of scissors to it.

 

Sally mumbled something and shuffled her feet.

 

“What was that?” She’d be angry later, Betty told herself. She would tell Don about this when he got home, and they’d deal with it together. Just now, she had to understand why her five year old daughter had turned her doll into a street walker. “Answer me properly!”

 

The girl looked mutinous for a brief moment. “I just wanted to make her look like me!” Sally burst out. She twisted her hands in her dress, wrapping the skirt of it around her chubby fists and clutching them anxiously to her chest. “I’m sorry Mommy, I didn’t mean to be bad.”

 

Betty stared at her disbelievingly for a moment, then abruptly realised the absurdity of it all and felt a smile trying to pull at her lips. _Not a nightmare after all_ , she thought, feeling the flood of relief. She put the doll on the counter carefully. “Barbie is a grown woman,” she told Sally, trying to keep her face stern. “She can’t wear short frocks. You’re supposed to want to look like her, not the other way around. If you want a baby doll with a short frock, we can get one. But don’t cut Barbie’s dresses in the future, ok?”

 

Sally nodded eagerly.

 

“OK. Go watch TV with your brother.” She shook her head as Sally ran off, her dress still up around her waist, displaying her knickers to the world.

 

 _Children_ , she thought. They’d be the death of her. Barbie in a little girl’s dress, with a raised hem – it was positively indecent on an adult doll. She still wasn’t sure whether it had been a good idea to buy it, and now she was doubly uncertain. This sort of nonsense would never have happened if they had stuck to baby and toddler dolls. No danger of mistaking a little girl dress with a streetwalker’s outfit, certainly!

 

Her hands still shaking a little, she picked up her cigarette and took a soothing drag on it. On the bed, the doll stared up at her reproachfully, its sun-dress ruined. Well, she certainly couldn’t let Sally play with her in this state, who knows what people would think. Sighing, she made a mental note to set aside some time later on in the day to put together a replacement dress for the doll. Maybe a winter outfit, she thought, a lacquered nail worrying at a stray thread.

 

 

 

 

 _7pm_   


 

*

 

“Mommy, please, just a little longer! I promise I’ll be good.”

 

“Don’t argue. Get washed up and get into bed.”

 

Making a face, Bobby trudged upstairs. Sally looked after his dejected figure for a moment, then ran after him. “I’m tired, Bobby, I’ll come with you!”

 

Betty shook her head. They’d fought like cats and dogs when they had been younger, those two; she was rather glad that Sally was displaying a little maturity these days. _In some areas_ , she amended, and turned back to her needlework. She hadn’t bothered with a pattern for Barbie’s new dress, merely snipping a circle skirt out of some left-over red fabric and pinning a strapless top in place. She was thinking about fetching some net fabric and sewing a quick petticoat – to prevent any similar escapades in the future – when she heard the front door click open and looked up, startled. “Don!”

 

“Hey, Bets.” He looked tired, she noted. She put the sewing down, writing off the thought of any petticoat-sewing this evening.

 

“I didn’t expect you back tonight,” she said as he leaned down to kiss her. He smelled of whiskey and smoke; she wondered faintly when he had last eaten and frantically thought about whether the left-overs would be enough if he was really hungry. Well, there was cold ham as well, and a slice of that cherry pie she’d made a couple of days ago, so –

 

“I wanted to see you,” he said, smiling a little. He stepped back to let her get to the kitchen and start pulling out the covered dishes, then snuck up behind her and put his arms around her. His hands were so broad they could almost span her waist.

 

Betty closed her eyes. “I missed you,” she whispered.

 

She could feel him smile against her neck. “Missed you too, Bets,” he said quietly. His fingers pressed in at her left side, turning her gently, until she found herself caught between him and the edge of the sink, his hands lifting her so she could perch on the kitchen counter, her knees on his hips.

 

“I should get some dinner on the table,” she said. “You must be starving.”

 

His smile was very white. “Yes,” he said, and bent down to kiss her.

 

 

 

 

 _10.30pm_   
__

*

 

Don fell asleep easily, his body warm and solid in the bed, spooning her in his stupor. His arm was heavy across her torso, and it took her a few moments to shift it and wriggle away, gasping as the cold air hit her bare skin. She pulled the coverlet back into place quickly, making sure no heat had escaped, then grabbed her robe and pulled her slippers back on. She wanted a shower, but with Don asleep it wouldn’t be possible, so she stole into the bathroom to run some water quietly and clean herself up. She felt uncomfortably sticky, and knew that it would be worse in the morning. Better to get it over with now.

 

The water was icy cold, and she let it run as long as she dared in the hope that it would warm up a little no such luck. Sighing, she fetched a washcloth and wet it, wringing out the worst of the cold before sponging herself clean. By the time she was done, her teeth were chattering and she was wide awake. No getting back to bed now, she’d just lie there or, worse, wake up Don.

 

She wrapped her robe more securely around her and wandered out into the landing. The house was quiet, the only sounds Don’s heavy breathing and the soft patter of hail outside. _What dreadful weather_ , she thought, then, treacherously, _maybe it will be too dangerous for the trains to run into town tomorrow_. She closed the curtains across the landing, and checked that Bobby and Sally were asleep before going downstairs to set up some laundry for the next morning.

 

 Don had brought his overnight bag back, overflowing with dirty clothes, and she picked through the identical white shirts and boxers, separating them out from his suit trousers and jacket. In the inadequate, flickering light of the utility room lightbulb, she set out bleach and starch for the whites, and set the suit to one side for the dry-cleaners. This close, the heavy smell of cologne from one of the shirts was especially strong, and Betty paused, the crisp cotton wrinkled in her hands.

 

 _Poor man,_ she thought, something strange twisting in her stomach. _He’s cut himself shaving._

Helplessly, she brought the shirt closer, squinting in the dim light as she touched her nail to the tiny smudge of red at the shirt’s collar. It didn’t _look_ like lipstick…

 

And then she realised what she was doing. She was in her nightrobe, in the utility room, prodding and agonising over her husband’s dirty laundry, while he and their children slept upstairs. She exhaled sharply, almost laughing, then set the shirt to one side. Some time in the bleach would get that blood right out, she decided, and put the shirt back with the others.

 

When she crept back into bed, Don had hardly moved. Betty eased up the coverlet and slid under it, shivering as she sought out the warm circle of Don’s arms.

 

“Hmmm, wheredidyougo,” Don murmured in her hair, half-asleep.

 

“Shhh,” she whispered. “I’m here now.”

 

She closed her eyes.

 

 

 

 

 _4.30am_   
__

*

 

When the phone rang a few hours later, Don jolted back into wakefulness a second or two before Betty. She’d fallen asleep on his arm and he jerked away as he woke, jostling her. Betty shifted and turned to face him.

 

“Who would be ringing in the middle of the night?” She murmured, blinking and raising a hand to rub her eyes.

 

Don smoothed her hair back and levered himself out of bed. “Stay put, I’ll see who it is.”

 

“M’kay,” she said, drowsy.

 

She heard him go downstairs, and the ringing stop. There was the faintest murmur, too quiet for her to make out the words, and she felt herself slip back into sleep.

 

An indeterminate amount of time later, someone was touching her shoulder. “Hey, Bets. Wake up, c’mon.”

 

“What?” She blinked up at him blearily. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

 

“It’s Gene, Bets. He wants to speak to you.”

 

That made her wake up quickly. “My dad’s on the phone? What did he want? Is everything ok?”

 

Don looked like he was irritated and trying not to show it. “He didn’t say. He wants to speak to you.”

 

“I – all right.” She slipped out of bed and stuck on her slippers and robe, all but running downstairs. Her dad wouldn’t call for no reason, at this time of night. Whatever it was, it was bad news. She stepped on something sharp at the bottom of the stairs, just barely managing to suppress a gasp as she pulled it out and found it to be one of Bobby’s toy soldiers. She limped into the kitchen to grab the phone. “Yes? Dad?”

 

There was a long pause at the other end. “Dad?” She said again. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

 

She heard him inhale raggedly and felt something inside her clench at the sound. “Oh, Betty. Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

 

The phone receiver was cold and heavy in her hand. She could hear her dad speaking unsteadily, but his words buzzed in Betty’s ears, strange and incomprehensible. “I don’t understand,” she said numbly, and listened to her dad try not to cry. “I don’t understand,” she said again, more to herself than to him, and turned to find Don at her side, easing the phone away from her lax grip and gently returning it to its cradle. Somehow, there was a lit cigarette in her hand, shaking a little as she brought it to her lips.

 

“Bets.” Don said gently. He put his arms around her, trying to warm her up. “Birdy, what happened?” She could feel wetness on his pyjama collar, from where her cheek pressed against him. Her body was rigid in his arms and cold, the only heat in the kitchen from the cherry of her cigarette dropping ash along his arm as he folded her against him.

 

“My mom,” she said, then her breath stuttered, and she gulped back a sob. “Oh, Don, my mom died. She _died_ , Don.” She did sob then, turning abruptly and burrowing her face in his shoulder.

 

“Oh, Bets,” he said helplessly. His hands settled on the small of her back as she cried.

 

 

 

 _5.30am_

 

*

 

Don’s arms were warm around her, heavy and reassuring in sleep. He’d drifted back off almost immediately, curling her into his lap as if he could keep her safe with his mere presence. “You all right?” He’d murmured quietly, as her sobs had slowed.

 

She’d nodded, although he could probably feel but not see her, this close. She could smell the warmth and tiredness of him, lethargy in every pore. She felt like she was drowning.

 

Easing herself free once more, she slipped into her robe and slippers and went back downstairs. She lit a cigarette and sat on the couch, the cherry bright red in the dark room. She could taste salt on her cheeks.

 

 _I’ll have to wash my face_ , she thought numbly. Tears would mean a blotchy face the next morning, and that would never do. _Mom will be horrified_ – then, catching herself, _Mother, Mother will be horrified_. Her cigarette finished, the flame flickering a last time before cooling rapidly into ash. She lit another. _Would be_ , she corrected herself again. _She would have been._

 

It was so cold, she couldn’t feel her fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Ossining,_   
_January 5 th 1960_   
__

_6.30am_   
__

*

 

Sally woke when someone bent over her bed, perfume and cigarettes and something familiar ticking her nose. “Mommy,” Sally mumbled, and then her eyes snapped open in surprise. Sally’s mom wasn’t there to tuck Sally back into bed, she understood abruptly, or even to wake her up for a special day. Instead, she grabbed Sally’s arm and dragged her out of bed, her fingers pinching so much that Sally nearly cried out. (Nearly, but not quite. Because Sally wasn’t quite sure if she was still dreaming, or if this wasn’t her mommy at all, but some stranger wearing her face.)

 

Mommy took her into mom and dad’s bedroom – Daddy was already out of bed, Sally noticed – and sat Sally down in front of the dresser Sally was never allowed to touch. She pulled out her combs and pins and brushes. Mommy picked up a hairbrush. “Sally,” she said, her voice shaking, “I want you to pay attention.” She took Sally’s hand and placed it on the hairbrush, folding her fingers over Sally’s sleep-tired ones. “This is very important.” She raised the brush to Sally’s hair, and smoothed it carefully across the tangles. “Are you paying attention?”

 

In the mirror, she had the brightest eyes Sally had ever seen. “Yes, mommy,” she whispered, and tightened her grip on the hairbrush. Her Barbie, wearing a new red dress, stared glassily from where she had been propped against the dressing table mirror.

 

Outside, the sun was coming up.

 

 

 

 

 _… chantilly lace and a pretty face  
and a pony tail hanging down  
that wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk  
makes the world go round…_

 

 

 

*

 

\- fade out -


End file.
